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From one frog to humans, or 'Go dig a Pond'


Burnt summer,
Another hot summer
Without a drop of water
I wait
It’s only June.

With ochre hives
And forgotten tones
Of emerald green
Parched fields
and thorny hegderows.

A dead speckled wood
I’d rather eat fresh
Is on the menu
today,
tomorrow unknown.

A bleak summer ahead,
Our long forgotten cousins
Creep steathily unseen
Waiting silently
for clouds.

A buttercup-yellow
Marsh marigold forest
Croaked from
Floating reeds and
choked crispy chickweed.

Andrew Toms
Poetry Theme(s):

Currently Popular Poems:

Becalmed

I can no longer dot the i’s, nor cross the t’s. A pale haze, like Sunday afternoons, pleasant after a glass of wine too many, drifts across my day. I am at peace. I find myself disposed to acquiesce, content to live life at this gentle pace, content, it seems, with how life’s focus, now diminished, takes on the softened blur of evening light. Something sharp is lost. But the time for mourning it is done. The wind that swelled the sails has dropped, the tide recedes, the fierceness of the sun is quenched, leaving the sunshine’s golden glow that speaks the lateness of the hour. A taste of salt upon my lips - no call for worry or regrets - a bitter-sweet recall of what has gone. Julia Duke
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Change

As  I stand with my feet in the ocean, and look at the setting sun, I think of how many me's, have stood in how many seas, but always stared at the same one. A snapshot of scenes in the movie of me, at various times of my being. A new version of me every single time; the same star I'm always seeing. It fills me with curious wonder, for the places that I may go; And the life that has yet to happen, and the things I have yet to know. Jess
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Seasons

To each a season: the planets Turn in Kepler's gyre, Swelling the mental weather, Fattening the wealth Of light and dark I weekly Feel in my own solitude. To each a season: a death Of what was hard and cold: A burst of sun to break My hoary sadness And gild the shining tower I build around your smile. But let's not talk of sun But speak instead of life And all the things I feel When living through mortality. The lovely times We feast and meagre times We only feed on memories. I have my seasons. Tim Holt-Wilson
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Pandemic

Piecing together all our hopes and dreams, joining the broken fragments of our lives, managing the pain of another loss, full of joy when finally together, society’s fabric hangs by a thread. Julia Duke
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A Way of Life

It’s become a way of life this summer, the canvas bag slung over my shoulder hoping not to need it hoping the sky will stay blue long enough to get a walk by the sea. It’s become a way of life this summer, wearing my green jeans, wearing a matching sweatshirt to keep the wind out, wearing green wherever possible to match my green cagoule in case I need it. It’s becoming a way of life, it’s true, this life of uncertainty which nags at the back of your mind and keeps you constantly looking up the weather on your phone. It’s a way of life, this anxiety which sends me scurrying for help when it mushrooms out of control in the middle of the night. Julia
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River Stour Haiku

Wandering the bend, Bending around the wonder Meander reveals. Freda
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On The Beach

Mid-tide, I lay bemused, sun and breeze upon my face, pebbles hard and damp beneath my back, at peace; my ears and mind filled with boom and roar and rush and grate, eternal sound, unhurried pace of everlasting ocean, as its waves gather their brown relentless selves to crash upon the shoreline, white flurries marking their landing place. In that hypnotic space I wander back and forth in thought, that from the sea we came and that the sea will still remain, when, maybe our human race no longer walks the shores and no longer looks in awe at the ocean’s incomprehensible face. Jan Armstrong Photo by Mia Nicoll via Unsplash
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Chromatic Cornflowers

Chromatic cornflowers Pigments aplenty blooming Nowton park trooping. June colours endeavour A visual adventure Periwinkle magenta. Wedgwood, Delft blue The colours a clue To nectar collecting. Not Sainsburys points But food for honey A botanical checkpoint. Archie
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The Rain

Pitter patter falls the rain, on the roof and window pain Softly softly it falls down, Makes a stream that runs around. Penelope
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